Between Life

Chapter 4: Whispers of Desperation

For about two weeks, we endured the hospital stay. My mother, being impatient and feeling a lack of progress in her condition, decided to forcefully leave the hospital with the condition set by the doctor that she must diligently remember to take her medication. I continued reminding my mother about it after we left the hospital.

My sister couldn't come to the hospital during that two-week period because my mother insisted that she shouldn't come and it's better for her to focus on her work. The main reason my mother refused my sister's visit was that the man would often visit her at the hospital, and my mother was afraid of being scolded by my sister if she found out about it.

How many times do I have to say it? Has my mother ever thought of me as her child? I continued to suppress all that pain. Not long after we left the hospital, the man's wife called my mother. Yes, that man is a married man with three children. His three children are even older than me.

At that time, my mother and I were at a roadside eatery, enjoying our meal when her phone rang, displaying a new number. As she answered the call, I could see her eyebrows instantly furrow, indicating her anger.

"Seraphina, continue eating. I'll be over there in the corner to take the call. When you're done, let me know, and we'll head home," my mother said. The eatery was relatively empty, with only the two of us as customers at that moment. My mother moved to a corner table, and I, who had been leisurely eating, now hurried to finish my meal.

Her lower voice gradually escalated into a heated argument with someone. The eatery's vendor glanced at me, his gaze carrying a mix of sadness and perhaps anger, possibly directed at my mother. I ate even faster. When I finished, I turned around, signaling to my mother that I was done, but she remained silent, engrossed in her call.

My mother vented her anger towards the other woman, more precisely, the legal wife of the man. My mother asserted that it wasn't her fault if her husband preferred staying with her, blaming the other woman for not being adept at keeping him. It was disconcerting to witness my mother, a woman and a mother herself, uttering such words to another woman in a similar position. I felt so embarrassed. I could only lower my gaze, feeling restless, and wondering when this would all come to an end.

I continued restlessly, anxiously waiting for my mother to finish her call so that she could pay for our meal, and we could head home. The words my mother threw during the call seemed highly inappropriate to me—coming from a mother and a wife who had experienced infidelity herself. Did my mother forget she had once been in the same position as that woman? Is this what they call love? Now I understand why people say the second puberty in old age can be worse than the first in youth; this must be the reason.

I felt ashamed.

I almost wanting to run away and leave my mother alone, but I lacked the conviction and courage at that moment. I was also afraid to call my sister and tell her about this, as I feared my mother's reaction.

Once the call ended, my mother casually paid for our meal, and we headed home. Upon reaching home, she asked for my opinion about that woman, as if the woman was undoubtedly at fault. I didn't know the exact circumstances, but I would never justify a situation involving a third party. This whole situation was truly insane.

I kept enduring, and enduring, for some reason believing that God must have a beautiful plan for my family. There had to be a happy ending in store, whatever it might be. I was still so sure about holding on.

The relationship between my mother and that man continued, regardless of whatever happened. Not long after his legal wife called my mother, he divorced his wife and became even more attached to my mother. I didn't know how to react or what to say. I just tried to breathe a sigh of relief every day. My sister and I weren't very close due to the significant age gap, and she was often busy. I had to understand that. Every moment, I had to understand that.

My mother always appeared happy with that man, as if they were the only two people on the face of the Earth and everyone else was just visiting. However, out of the blue, my mother's asthma flared up again, even worse this time, forcing her to be hospitalized once more. It lasted only a week, and of course, she left the hospital prematurely because my mother couldn't stand it.

I endured all this time because I knew I still had my mother and sister, and I wanted to be with them. When my mother entered the hospital for the second time and ran out of clothes, I returned home to fetch some outfits for her.

However, when I handed the clothes to my mother for her to change, she suddenly threw them at my face and began scolding me, questioning why I chose such clothes. The clothes, which I thought were perfectly fine, and my mother had even said to bring whatever. Once again, it was my fault, yes, it was my fault.

"Accursed child, it should have been you who died, not your father. You're not worthy of living. Since you were born, I had to have a C-section, and look at my belly; it's not pretty because of you. When you were born, our family life was filled with so many disasters. It's all your fault. Your tears are just fake tears. You're heartless. If it weren't for you, maybe your father and I would be so happy with just one child—your sister. Look at how successful she is, while you're just a bringer of misfortune," my mother uttered those words repeatedly.

emphasizing that I was indeed a bringer of misfortune. My biological mother, MY BIOLOGICAL MOTHER!!! The term "accursed child" was repeated several times to underscore that I was indeed a bringer of misfortune.

After that day, my will to live vanished. Those words were etched clearly in my mind; even my biological mother didn't want me, so what was the point of my existence? I felt certain that if I hadn't been born, this family would be just fine. I was merely a hindrance, a bringer of misfortune. It was all my fault.

I swallowed those words whole, allowing my body to absorb every letter and syllable. Of course, it was my fault. My biggest mistake was living. Oh, perhaps it wasn't the fault of that man, but mine. If I didn't exist, my father wouldn't have died, and my mother probably wouldn't be with that man. After that day, I prayed every night that I wouldn't wake up the next morning—hoping for a peaceful death in my sleep.

My situation worsened, but I didn't show it. Maybe I did, but no one cared to look or even try to see my struggles. Yet, for some reason, I still hoped my mother would remember the words she hurled at me and perhaps apologize for them. Or, look at me the way she looked at my sister, as if I were one of her own children.

Unfortunately, that never happened. I never received an apology, or at least the gaze from my mother that I longed for. After 1 year and 7 months, my mother passed away. On that day, not a single tear fell. I tried and tried to cry, but not a single tear would come. The happy memories of my mother seemed to be erased, and all I could remember were the painful ones. I tried to forgive her mistakes, but what about her final words? Would they just end like that, while I'm here feeling like taking a breath is already halfway to death?